“Rage, rage against the dying of the light; Do not go gently into that good night.” – Dylan Thomas

On Monday afternoon, September 24, I sat in a Portland restaurant with two friends discussing the recent calamitous world events. Suddenly out of nowhere, my mind and consciousness filled with thoughts and memories of Shawn Walsh. Waves of emotion washed over me and, interrupting our conversation, I struggled in vain for five minutes or so to articulate just how this passionate, gifted, complex and charismatic man had impacted my life.

At one point, noting the possibility of his imminent death, I choked up, my eyes welling with tears, and gradually the conversation drifted to other topics.

On Tuesday morning, I picked up a copy of the Portland Press Herald to discover Shawn had died on the previous afternoon – at approximately the same time I had been thinking of him. As I stared in shock and disbelief, the unlikely, synchronistic events of the previous day overwhelmed my senses. I thought of how my life had ever so briefly intersected with his, how my soul had been irrevocably altered because of it, and how fortunate and blessed I was for the exchange.

I had all of three weeks experience as a sports videographer for a local TV station in late September 2000 when I got the call on a Sunday afternoon.

“I want to go to Orono,” the weekend sports anchor said, “to cover the first practice of UMaine’s hockey team. Get some video of the players on the ice and make sure you get an interview with him and see if he’ll talk about it.” The “him,” of course, was the legendary – some might say infamous – coach Shawn Walsh, and the “it” was his recently diagnosed kidney cancer. Though intrigued and excited, I warily asked her, “What’s this guy really like?”

To say Shawn Walsh’s reputation preceded him was like saying it gets a little chilly during Maine winters … a gross understatement. There was the maverick coach, obsessed, mercurial, driven, demanding, feared, respected and even hated by some of his own players. There was the master tactician, taking a nothing program in the middle of nowhere to national prominence and a national title.

There was the coach in exile, his character in question, shamed, humiliated, suspended by his employer for a year without pay, the label “unprincipled ambition” invisibly stenciled on his chest as surely as the scarlet “A” on Hester Prynne’s dress.

There was the near-mythic return, excesses said to be tempered and redirected, remarried with something approaching humility now a part of his modus operandi. A Phoenix-like resurrection culminating in yet another national title. And now this … diagnosed with kidney cancer and operated on in July 2000, a highly uncertain future and, with whispers of “terminal” echoing in some dark corners of the sports world, possibly a martyr in waiting?

Two and a half hours is a long time to be alone with your thoughts, and all these crossed my mind on the silent trip north. Which coach Walsh would I meet? Doctor Jekyll or Mr. Hyde? There was also this: Shawn Walsh’s temper was volcanic, and he was not know to suffer fools or inexperienced media members gladly. Wonderful.

It was therefore with great apprehension that I unloaded my gear and trudged reluctantly into Alfond Arena. Expecting a huge media herd, I was surprised to find myself the only person with a camera and microphone. Adding to my discomfort, the staff and even some players spoke of him in hushed, hesitant tones, as if uncertain whether or even if I wold be welcomed. They all seemed to be afraid of “Coach.”

And then he strode into the locker room. In less than 30 seconds, I discovered why Shawn Walsh was the man. Walking briskly, purposefully, eyes intense and focused, he immediately commanded the attention and respect of everyone present. All eyes turned to him, conversations ended, and time seemed to momentarily stand still as we all waited for him to set the agenda – which he wasted no time in doing. It was instantly apparent that, at least in this corner of the universe, he was the all-too-luminous sun, and the rest of us merely planets gratefully circling in his orbit.

A television photographer is really nothing more than a paid voyeur. For the next hour and a half, I was simply allowed the privilege to observe and record. I saw a man wholly in his element, supremely confident, doing exactly what he was sent to the earth to do and passionately loving every minute of it.

He reveled in all the attention and gave himself totally to the moment. Remarkably, he seemed to savor every second. One could tell he was immensely enjoying himself. He was accessible, fully present, and yet there was also a strange reserve about him, a remoteness and distance that I doubt any living being ever fully bridged. This was not a man you would have seen confessing his innermost thoughts to Oprah.

To say Shawn Walsh had charisma is like saying it gets dark at night. He exuded it. I have been involved in athletics all my life, and through it, and a brief career in media, I have met and interacted with my share of VIPs. I have run the roads of Maine with Joan Benoit Samuelson; run Heartbreak Hill in Boston next to four-time Boston Marathon winner and running icon Bill Rodgers. I have met former U.S. Sen. George Mitchell, Ted Williams, Carlton Fisk, Bobby Orr, Richard Petty and Dale Earnhardt; I have worked with Maine media guru Bill Green.

Yet none of these giants, individually or collectively, impacted my life the way coach Walsh did. I covered his team six or seven times in the 2000-01 season, and with every assignment, my respect, admiration and awe of him grew exponentially. “Come on,” he’d say gruffly, feigning impatience, “I’ve only got time for a couple of questions.” He would then proceed to turn on the charm and patiently answer five or six. He was never anything less than cooperative, energetic, upbeat, positive, and … the ultimate professional. Yet, every second of every minute of every hour of every day, he was dying of cancer. And knew it. Observing him that first night, I got the overwhelming impression that, if you’ll pardon the pun, he knew exactly what the score was, exactly what he was up against, exactly what the odds were, and exactly what lay ahead.

My God, I thought, he knows he’s dying and has made peace with it … and himself. Unbelievable. When I questioned him about his health, he joked that his assistants might have to carry him out in a rocking chair and put him behind the bench during games. He radiated a serenity and purpose that I have only seen in the highly spiritually evolved.

Shawn Walsh never knew my name. I was just another anonymous face behind a camera that he had to deal with. Exactly one year older than him at his death, I spent less than six hours of my life in his presence. Yet he has influenced me in ways beyond calculation – as if he had been my coach or life mentor. The words “inspiring,” “brave,” and “courageous” do not begin to cover it, and it was obvious he had that affect on nearly everyone who ever met him.

It has been said that if you are fortunate in your lifetime, you may once or twice brush shoulders with greatness. When that occurs, there is no need for words or introductions. You simply know. And that is what strikes me now at his death … I have no words to adequately describe or convey the greatness that was Shawn Walsh. Only knowing. Yet that may ultimately be his legacy. He was beyond words. He transcended sports and even language as we know it. Except possible the following:

Somewhere in heaven, God had better be paying attention. “Coach” Walsh has just entered his locker room.

Rock E. Green

Westbrook